Tuesday, October 2, 2012


My ex-husband and I - we were fighting. So it was a normal weekend. We were at my apartment in Buena Park – I don’t think we had the kids that weekend, so it was just the two of us. Sunny and hot - probably 90-degrees. And he was out in the parking/garage area, working on his truck. It was a 1963-or-so Chevy truck, and he was trying to restore it one piece at a time. He didn’t know what in the hell he was doing and we had no real tools. This was an ‘on the fly’ operation, and smooth as sand in butter. The part about how we were arguing – we were always arguing. I married him anyway. I used to be retarded.

The truck looked something like this:
And it had a steering wheel that looked kinda like this:

Now, these old steering wheels – they were plastic and skinny and could be slippery. They often had little tiny ridges molded into the plastic on the side facing you – to help you keep your grip on the wheel.
It looked like this ---> (IIIIIIIIII).

So, with this old truck – there were problems with the steering. He needed to take apart the whole steering column to replace a part and re-pack it with grease and blah blah car repair stuff blah. In order to get to all of the column, the steering wheel would have to come off. As you can imagine, 30 years of rust and dirt and grime had created an almost impenetrable force field around this thing. All the bolty-things had been removed, screwy things un-screwed, and yet there was something wedged down in the steering column against the blah-dee blah steering wheel party thingy, and everything was stuck. Where once there were many, now all was one. Fused, as it were. To put it in a nutshell, he struggled.

But, he had a weapon – a professional tool. He had one of these:

A great beast of a rubber mallet. And he was using the crap out if it. He was – people. He was sitting in the driver’s seat. And he was hitting the back of the steering wheel, hitting towards himself, you see. Towards his own face. He needed that thing OFF and it was good and STUCK and we had been arguing and he was MAD. So what he did was, he would BANG BANG BANG that steering wheel on the back side with that great big rubber mallet, and then JERK and TUG that steering wheel, and YANK it around to the side, and then grab that big mallet and WHACK BANK WHACK the thing, and then JERK and TUG, and this was with all his might, and he was angry – did I mention? So his ‘might’ was FUELED. And this went on, and on. He was out in the hot sun, in a gigantic 1963 tin can, pissed as a wet cat, and – well, he was sorta stupid.

I went out there at one point for some reason, and just stood watching this Poseidon Adventure of a disaster unfolding in a sort of horrified awe. There is no way, on any kind of dare or bet, that you could ever. I mean EVER. Get me to swing a gigantic rubber mallet as hard as I could at a skinny little curved bar right in front of my own face. Even an infant could have seen that this was not a good plan. And this story is not going to end the way you think it is.

I had been back in the house for about a half an hour. It must have happened right after I walked away, and he stayed out there that long hoping against hope that it wasn’t as bad as he thought. But there were mirrors in that truck. He could see the damage. He came in the house, still mad as hell. And across his forehead was a huge red welt. About 2 inches across. And neatly, primly lined up like stitches on a dainty vintage hanky, were the clear, beautiful imprints of those ridges I told you about that were on that steering wheel.

He had yanked. And it had answered. That steering wheel had loosed its grip and he had *yoinked* it right into his own face.  And I almost died right on the spot from an aneurism, trying not to laugh. He had to walk around with that red badge of honor shining in the middle of his forehead (and if you think it didn’t swell up as big as an un-canned biscuit, you are crazy) for over a week. And people, there aren’t many ways to get that kind of injury – there was no way to cover that up. The story had to be told. He had to go to work like that. It was awesome.

He and I never, EVER spoke of it. We divorced years ago and I have never seen him again.  But to this day, yea, even unto this very minute, this story gives me a small, bright, mean spot of GLAD, right in my soul.


  1. When I went out in public with him I would have asked people if they knew what I should tell my dumb fuck husband when he is in full tilt truck fuck up?
    Then I would have NOTHING!
    I already told him once.
    Get it?
    I all ready told him once ...see they would think the welt was from you jacking him with the steering wheel......ahhh never mind.
    They have steering wheel pullers you can rent from a parts store.

    1. I got it, I got it. I wanted to bash him with that HAMMER.

      He wasn't smart enough to rent a real tool. Being that he WAS a real tool. I CRACK MYSELF UP.

  2. Thousands of comedians in bread lines and you are trying to be funny.
    Ruining jokes are my department. It's the one thing I do well.
    My mother was tending bar once and a guy came in and saw a sign that said cheese sandwiches one dollar.
    Hand jobs ten dollars.
    So he asked my mother if she was the one giving the hand job and my mother lit up and said well yes, yes I am.
    So the guy says wash your hands and make me a sandwich.
    Delete that if you want.
    Satan made me do it.

    1. DELETE IT? I'm framing it. Bitch needed a Silkwood shower a la Meryl Streep - http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Karen+Silkwood

      He would've been better asking for a full body condom. Or going to another bar.

    2. I already know the scene you are referring to. That kind of a shower kills the buzz of even a naked Meryl Streep.
      Unless you're bent that way.
      Which I am not.
      I think.
      My mother however is trisexual.
      She'll try anything once.

  3. q, yer bein' bashful about The Barbarian again. Tell the truth: She was MULTI-sexual, the veritable Mt. Rushmore of sexual multi-tasking. If you go to her website you'll see what he means. First you have to get past the pages of her self-promotion crap hawking her self-help books including, "How to Commit Murder-AND Get AWAY With It!" which show-cases multiple newspaper clippings of how she did it, and "so can YOU!" testimonials to her no-fail strategies including how to "barter" for a "negative" result in the Anti-Freeze Soup post-mortum investigation. Then there's the various "Eau de Barbarian" Speciality Douches including "Tropical Twat," "Coconut Strokin' It," "Misty Mountain Murder" and so forth. Then comes the pictorials-go past the German Shepherds and the Pinto Ponies (The Barbarian's "Dog and Pony" Show) and you'll see it. There it is, in the National Park section: She's doin' George's Nose. See? No, George does NOT look happy, in fact he looks like he just inhaled a month's worth of the contents of Manhattan's "Waste Treatment Facility" pre-treatment in one wild bong hit. That was one rush more than George could bear, poor guy. Not to mentioned, undignified. (The Indians were thrilled-FINALLY someone gets why this "monument" is rather...offensive to First Nation people.) Anyway, The Barbarian may be aging, but if it's hard and pointy, she'll give it a shot-in the back, if possible. (Look out, K2!)
    Gladys, it's always good to look back and see how FAR you've come since you were "trained" right into that marriage. I don't believe for a second there's an ACoN in the bunch of us who hasn't had our fair share of....."starter marriages" or "relationships" based on the principles of Crazy and Crazier. Our relationship bar was set in a Boot Camp of unabashed insanity so we go with what we know. Better yet, we run like our asses are on fire as soon as we figure out why this feels familiar. We got married (or co-habitated) as a way OUT of it and damn, if we didn't step right in it again.
    Now, if we'd only had a way to Divorce our egg and plant "parents" we'd have been be all set, instead of set-up (again.) Unlike eggplants, they were hazardous to our health and unfit for human consumption now matter HOW we "served" 'em.

  4. Thank you for my biggest smile of the day! Your writing is very witty and engaging.